


Stars Below, A Star Above

by Iron



Series: ThunderRod Week 2020 [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Allusions to abortion, Fluff, Honey I’ve Knocked Up The Robot, M/M, Mechpreg, Surprise pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:47:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25541569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron/pseuds/Iron
Summary: Rodimus Prime realizes he’s sparked. Thunderclash is eager to see more of his new little one.
Relationships: Thunderclash/Rodimus
Series: ThunderRod Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1850794
Comments: 9
Kudos: 74
Collections: ThunderRod Week 2020





	Stars Below, A Star Above

1\. 

In the dark belly of Nyon, beneath the smog-blackened sky of Cybertron, the mechs who live in the dying city whisper stories to each other of strange worlds and strange places. They whisper of things they’ve never seen, places they’ve never been, their words hushed little shapes in the dark. Spark plates splay open, revealing innermost selves as they spin stories of Cybertron’s nature for younglings who have never heard the tale before. 

There’s a sea of stars in the dirt and grime of Nyon, cradled in his rusted arms. They whisper about the stars in the sky, seen only when the rare acid storm clears the air of smog to let the light break through, whisper of the shattered lights that are the fractious embers kept inside their chests. _We are celestial bodies in metal_ , they whisper, satisfaction nestled deep in their frames. Sparklings roll around between their frames, careless of their creator’s whispers, giggling happily as they tumble over each other. 

Hot Rod watches mechs not much younger than him roll around in the muck, but there’s no envy for them in him. He’s settled among the rare and glorified carriers of their little enclave instead. There’s so few of them, gentle as they brush his audials, amuzed by the way he presses his cheek to their swollen chassis and nuzzles at the little mites of light circling their sparks. _He’s going to be a beautiful carrier,_ they whisper to each other, laughing, painted frames arching towards each other like flowers towards a dizen little suns. 

He leans close to them, sees how beautiful they are, and knows he wants to be like them someday. 

— 

“ _FRAG_!” Rodimus stares at his open chest, the little splinter of starlight circling it with a wicked sort of joy. His fingers hook around the edge of his sparkchamber, a fine tremor traveling up them. He’s afraid of reaching into the tight casing and accidentally crushing the delicate little life. 

There’s still scrapes of teal on his sides from the night before, when he’d let Thunderclash get more handsy with him than he’d usually allow. Even if he dragged himself down to the medbay - something he’s not willing to do, knowing that Ratchet will turn those awful, judging blue optics on him for being stupid enough to get himself sparked. He can almost hear him now - he’s snarl _where was your damn shunt?_ and poke at the little new spark with his awful, freezing cold fingers, and he’d tug and pinch and be _awful_ about it. 

No, he’s not going to the medbay about it. 

His fingers trace the rounded bottom edge of his spark chamber, and his thoughts flicker between Thunderclash’s reactions and his assumption of how the rest of the ship will act. He doesn’t expect them to be happy. Who would be? He’s going to be dragging a liability behind them for the next - howver long. He can’t remember how long it took him to be self sufficient. A vorn? A couple of vorns? 

So much of his early life was spent in a city that didn’t allow you to think in terms of years, when surivival was decided in a matter of days. 

_They won’t expect this of the mighty Thunderclash_. 

There’s consolation in the thought. 

At least he’ll be bringing the mech down with him, a little. At least Thunderclash will be marred in assocation with Rodimus’s idiocity. 

He’s pulled from his thoughts by arms, strong and thick, wrapping around his waist. The bridge of a strong nose presses against the side of his helm as Thunderclash hunches over him. A thumb runs over the narrow, nearly invisble seam splitting his abdomen. In a few decades the growing mass of the sparkling will spread that seam, exposing mesh and protoform as his frame gapes outwards in an attempt to accomodate Thunderclash’s oversized spawn. He imagines popping like an overblown balloon and winces. 

Sleepy optics brighten when they take in his open chest plates. The sparkling swirls a dizzying pattern of light trails over his spark. Rodimus is sure it inherited its smugness from Thunderclash. “Is that -“ 

“You heard me yelling. You know what it is.” 

Fingers curl and tighten over his hips, but not enough to mark. Not even enough for him to feel more than pressure, before he’s released and fingertips are smoothing over the metal. “You’re carrying.” 

“I’ve spawned.” The sparkling dips back into the fuzzy energy of his corona, only to circle the crystal matrix and swirl back out towards the front of his spark. Rodimus feels vaguely ill. “We’re not telling anyone.” 

“Of course not.” 

Fear sweeps him for a moment, of demands and probing fingers and a little light crushed between massive figners -

“Nyons den, do they not? Podded Convoys like myself tend towards communal care of sparklings, though in my lack of a true traveling route I’d prefer to keep you ensconced somewhere safe, with trusted mechs nearby.” 

Of course he woulndt demand anything like that. Not perfect Thunderclash, taking things like a surpise sparkling in stride as easily as he would an ion storm in their path. Pause, plan, implement; the perfect leader. 

Rodimus swallows around the ball of fear in his throat and nods. “Den. We den. I’ll make my own nest. You can go - do whatever.” 

Thunderclash, perfect, stupid Thunderclash who doesn’t seem to understand that he’s being given an _out_ , cleaves himself closer. He seems to want to merge with him from behind, press close until their frames melt together into one, until two orbiting sparks coalesce into a single singing sun. “Let me watch some more. Just a little longer. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a thing more beautiful than I have you carrying our sparkling.” 

And, like the selfish idiot Rodimus knows he is, he lets him.


End file.
